Chapter 7: Blood and Runes
The world had narrowed to the taste of blood, the ringing in my ears, and the searing after-image of golden light stamped on the inside of my skull. Borros’s distain and instigation. The cadets around me stared, their faces a blur of fear and awe. I just knelt there, trembling, my hands still glowing faintly with a warmth that felt alien and terrifying.
Then, a slow, mocking applause cut through the silence.
Clap. Clap. Clap.
The sound was dry, precise, and it halted Borros mid-sentence. All heads turned.
He moved through the parted crowd like oil through water. Silver hair with those sharp, blood-red tips caught the dull light. A red jacket, unbuttoned, over dark combat gear. The runes etched into his skin, curling up his neck and down his arms, seemed to pulse with a faint, hungry light. Commander Xenon.
His smile was a blade. “Tsk tsk, Borros,” he said, his voice a smooth, amused baritone. “Bullying children again?” He stepped casually between Garvan’s smoking, groaning body and where I knelt in the dirt.
Borros stiffened, his jaw working. “Commander Xenon, I had no idea you would be visiting the Academy today.” The man’s usual granite demeanor fractured into something unnervingly close to nervousness. “U-uh, this stubborn girl was causing a ruckus so I was giving her a proper punishment.”
“Proper,” Xenon echoed, the word dripping with skepticism. He didn’t even look at Borros. His eyes, a strange, luminous grey, were fixed on me.
So this is the famous Commander Xenon, I thought, the name a distant bell ringing through my pain. Ren’s mentor. The man with the unknown ability, the one who seemed to absorb power through touch. The one Aria had warned me about with a frown she never explained.
He knelt in front of me. The air grew colder. His touch, when he pressed a hand to my bloody, aching face, was like frozen metal. It burned colder than my fire ever had. A weird, pulling sensation emanated from his fingers, a suction deep in my bones. The throbbing in my nose and cheekbone lessened, the torn flesh knitting itself together with a itch that was almost worse than the pain. He manipulated the bridge of my nose with a quick, cruel twist that made my eyes water anew, but the grinding wrongness was gone.
When he pulled back, his fingers were stained dark with my blood. He looked at them, then back at me, his predator’s smile widening.
“Oh, little flame,” he whispered, the words just for me. A chill that had nothing to do with his touch skittered down my spine. “Where have you been hiding?”
He stood in one fluid motion and offered me a hand. I stared at it, at the bloody fingertips. My body moved on autopilot, my own hand slipping into his. His grip was firm, pulling me up with ease. My legs wobbled, but held.
“I would like to borrow her,” Xenon announced to Borros, his tone leaving no room for argument. His other hand came up and gripped my arm, just above the elbow. The hold was proprietary, tight. “She is also going to be enrolled in the flame classes from now on.”
My gaze darted across the yard, searching frantically. I found Aria. She wasn’t looking at me. She was staring at Xenon, her face a mask of such pure, undiluted hatred it stole my breath. It was ancient, personal, a look that spoke of scars I knew nothing about. Beside her, Tsubaki’s expression was all worry, her hands clenched at her sides, caught between stepping forward and staying put.
Xenon didn’t wait for a response. He turned and pulled me with him, his stride long and confident. My arm ached in his grasp. He didn’t drag me, exactly, but his pull was inexorable, forcing me into a stumbling half-jog to keep up. We left the silent drill yard behind, the weight of hundreds of eyes on my back.
He took me to a small, isolated medic station on the academy’s outer perimeter, a dusty room that smelled of antiseptic and stale herbs. He pushed the door open with his foot and guided me inside, finally releasing my arm. Four stark white impressions of his fingers remained on my skin.
“Sit,” he said, nodding to a utilitarian stool.
I sat. The adrenaline was draining away, leaving a deep, bone-marrow exhaustion and a throbbing ache that seemed to be everywhere at once. He rummaged in a cabinet, produced a clean cloth and a basin of water. He wet the cloth and, with a disconcerting gentleness, began to wipe the dried blood from my face. The water was cool. His movements were methodical, almost clinical.
“The structural damage is resolved,” he explained, his voice conversational now. “The broken nasal bone, the microfractures in the zygomatic arch. The body’s natural healing will do the rest, though you’re going to be sore for at least two days.” He tilted my chin with a finger, examining his work. “The soft tissue damage, however, is its own masterpiece. Your eyes are already blackened. Quite the shiner you’ll have.”
His proximity was overwhelming. He smelled of ozone and something else, something metallic and old. The runes on his skin seemed to shift if I looked at them too long.
“Is healing your specialty?” I asked, my voice rough.
He laughed, a short, genuine sound that didn’t reach his eyes. “No such thing exists. Not real healing. Not here.” He tossed the pink-tinged cloth aside. “I’m a Bone Weaver. A useful trick for a soldier.” He held his palm up between us. “And this.”
A flame sprouted from the center of his palm. It was fire, but it was his fire. Orange and red, licking hungrily at the air, twisting like a living thing. It was vibrant, aggressive, completely different from the silent, consuming burst of gold-white that had erupted from me. But it was undeniably flame.
“I’m like you,” he said, his gaze locked on mine over the dancing light.
His other hand came up and grazed my cheek, his thumb tracing the line of a forming bruise. The touch lingered, far longer than was necessary for inspection. It was a claim. A assessment. I didn’t flinch. I didn’t pull away. I just stared up at him, caught between wonder and a deep, instinctive dread. Here was someone who might understand the fire in my veins. Here was also a predator, and I was in his den.
The moment stretched, thin and taut.
A scuffle at the door broke it.
The door swung open. “Commander, I didn’t realize you were starting the inspection in the outer medic stations. I would have met up he—”
Ren’s voice, all brisk efficiency, cut off abruptly.
He stood frozen in the doorway, his hand still on the knob. His eyes swept the scene: Xenon with his hand on my face, the faint smell of ozone and ash in the air, me on the stool looking broken and patched-up. His expression, usually so carefully guarded, underwent a violent transformation. Shock, first. Raw, unmistakable shock. Then, something darker, hotter, and far more dangerous flooded in behind it, wiping his features clean into a mask of terrifying blankness.
His eyes met Xenon’s.
The air in the small room turned to ice.
Ren blinked, his expression flattening into one of annoyed disbelief. He looked from my battered face to Xenon’s casual posture. “Did you beat up a new recruit?” he asked, his voice dry. “Come on, Xenon. Look at her. Clearly she’s not on your level.”
My mouth fell open. A hot spike of indignation burned through the lingering shock and bone-deep fatigue. I jumped back from Xenon’s proximity, my boots scuffing on the floor, and charged the two steps toward Ren with a fist raised. “How do I not look on his level?” I demanded, my voice cracking. “Look at these muscles! Hmm?” I shoved my sleeves up and raised my arms, flexing. The movement pulled at my sore shoulders. “They’ve grown these past months! As a matter of fact, I just held my own against a second-year, and I won!”
Ren looked at my tensed biceps with an expression that said he was observing a mildly interesting insect. He didn’t believe a word of it.
Xenon burst out laughing. It was a rich, full-bodied sound that seemed to shake the dust from the medic station’s rafters. “Is she your stubborn protégé?” he asked Ren, wiping a mirthful tear from his eye.
The word ‘protégé’ landed in my gut like a stone. It felt possessive. It felt like a claim I hadn’t agreed to. I went quiet, the fight draining out of my stance. Ren’s gaze slid from Xenon to me, but his face was unreadable. I wasn’t sure if he’d noticed the shift in my expression.
“Yes, Xenon,” Ren said, his tone shifting into something exasperated and familiar. He walked further into the room, clapping Xenon on the shoulder. “This is the incredibly stubborn, reckless, and stupid Arisa who always leans her punches too close to the right.” He mimicked a telegraphed hook. “And always looks in the direction she’s about to strike. Gives away every move before she makes it.”
Xenon snorted, shaking his head. “Some things never change.”
They laughed together, a short, sharp sound of shared history. It was a bro moment, easy and ingrained. For a few seconds, they seemed to forget I was there, a bleeding piece of furniture in the room. The ice from moments ago had thawed completely, replaced by a warmth that excluded me.
I was slightly annoyed. And deeply, profoundly tired. Xenon started talking about the outer perimeter, about increased shadow-beast activity near the Western Spires, asking about Ren’s squad’s patrol rotations. Ren answered in low, technical terms.
I just backed away slowly. No one stopped me. No one even seemed to notice as my hand found the door handle. I slipped out into the hall, the thick door swinging shut on the sound of their conversation.
The walk back to the barracks was a blur of aching muscles and prickling humiliation. The admiration and fear from the drill yard had evaporated. Now I just felt like a spectacle, a problem temporarily shelved. The faint, golden warmth under my skin had gone dormant, leaving a hollow coldness.
I showered in a daze, the water sluicing dirt and dried blood down the drain. The heat loosened the stiffness in my back and shoulders, but new bruises were blossoming in shades of purple and angry red. I dressed in clean leggings and a soft hoodie, the fabric soothing against my tender skin. I dug out the jar of herbal salve Mark had made for muscle aches, the one that smelled of pine and mint, and smeared the cool paste over the worst of the sore spots.
My new schedule was waiting for me, a crisp sheet of parchment tucked under my dorm room door. Advanced Pyrokinetic Theory. Practical Combustion Control. Flame-Hardened Weaponry. All starting tomorrow. The words felt like a sentence.
I found Aria in the library later that afternoon, tucked into a secluded alcove surrounded by towering shelves of old, leather-bound texts. She looked up as I approached, her eyes immediately scanning my face, taking in the healing bruises Xenon had left behind. Her own expression was tight, controlled.
“Nice shiner,” she said, her voice low.
“Commander’s recommendation,” I replied, sliding the schedule across the worn wooden table to her.
She scanned it, her lips pressed into a thin line. “Fire-user track. Of course.” She sighed, leaning back. “It’s the logical classification. Given what you displayed.”
“It wasn’t fire,” I whispered, leaning in close. The musty smell of old paper surrounded us. “You know it wasn’t. It was… gold. And silent. And it didn’t burn me.”
Aria glanced around, ensuring we were truly alone. “I know,” she murmured. “But ‘fire-user’ is a box they understand. It’s a box they can train and monitor. You must let them believe that’s what it is.” Her hand reached across the table, covering mine. Her grip was fierce. “Learn everything they teach you about fire. Use it as a mask. The moment they suspect it’s something else… something heavenly…”
She didn’t finish. She didn’t need to. The fear in her eyes was a complete sentence.
We met in the commons for dinner, a stark contrast to the tense library. We piled our trays with steaming noodle soup and thick slabs of bread. For an hour, we were just two friends. We talked about everything except glowing flames and watchful commanders. We laughed at some stupid thing Tsubaki had done in our earlier drills, imitated Borros’s facial expressions, and debated the best way to eat soup without splashing. It was normal. It was a lifeline.
But the hour ended, and my new schedule dictated my evening. I had to go meet Ren for training.
He was already in the Garden when I arrived, a stark silhouette against the pulsing grey mist. He wasn’t stretching. He wasn’t warming up. He was just standing there, waiting, his back to me. The air around him felt charged, brittle.
“You didn’t tell me,” he said, not turning around. His voice was flat, devoid of its earlier camaraderie with Xenon.
“Tell you what?” I asked, stopping a few paces away.
He turned. His eyes were like chips of flint. “Don’t play stupid. It doesn’t suit you. The flames. You manifested. And you didn’t say a word when I saw you this morning.”
The accusation hung between us. I crossed my arms, the sore muscles protesting. “You seemed a little preoccupied,” I shot back, my own temper flaring. “Catching up with your friend. Talking about perimeters and spires. My little crisis must have seemed pretty small-time.”
A muscle in his jaw ticked. “This isn’t about him.”
“It felt like it was,” I snapped. “One second you’re looking at me like I’m something he scraped off his boot, the next you’re all laughs and old war stories. Forgot I was even there.”
“Your feelings are not my priority,” he said, each word a precisely thrown stone. “Your control is. You lost it today. In front of the entire academy. You revealed a significant power in the most chaotic, dangerous way possible. You could have killed that boy.”
The truth of it was a cold weight in my stomach. But I wouldn’t let him see me bend. “He was going to keep hitting me. Borros wasn’t going to stop it.”
“That’s the point!” Ren’s voice finally cracked, sharp with frustration. “You don’t get to lose control because you’re angry or scared! The power isn’t an emotion! It’s a tool. And you treated it like a tantrum.” He took a step forward, the mist swirling around his boots. “We’re done talking. Show me.”
“Show you what?”
“Your fire. The fire you didn’t tell me about. Summon it. Now.”
I tried. I clenched my fists, reached for that burning, restless feeling in my core. Nothing. Just a hollow ache and the ghost of the lavender scent. “I can’t just… turn it on.”
“Then we train until you can,” he said, and there was no mercy in his eyes. “Or until you break. Your choice.”
He came at me without another word. This wasn’t the structured drilling of our usual sessions. This was cold, ruthless efficiency. He moved like shadow given purpose, his strikes aimed not to instruct, but to overwhelm. To punish.
I blocked the first jab, the impact jarring my already-sore arm. I ducked under a high kick. He was leaving openings, but they were traps. When I tried to exploit one, his forearm smashed across my ribs, knocking the air from my lungs. I staggered back, gasping.
“You’re holding back,” he snarled. “You’re afraid of it. That fear will get you killed.”
He pressed the attack, a relentless barrage that gave me no space to think, only to react. A fist grazed my temple, making my vision swim. A knee found my thigh, sending a bolt of pain down my leg. I was blocking, dodging, but it was a futile retreat. My breath came in ragged sobs. The more he hurt me, the more that panicked, caged-animal feeling rose in my chest—but the golden fire remained stubbornly absent, a sun behind thick cloud cover.
“Find it!” he shouted, his voice cutting through the mist and my pain.
He feigned a lunge to my left. I fell for it, shifting my weight. It was the opening he needed. His leg swept mine out from under me. I hit the obsidian dust hard, the impact shuddering through my bones. Before I could roll, his boot pinned my chest, not enough to crush, but enough to hold me down utterly.
He looked down at me, his expression devoid of any warmth. “Is this where you let it out again?” he asked, his voice dangerously quiet. “When you’re cornered? When you’re scared? That’s not control. That’s a reflex. A failure.”
Shame, hot and sour, joined the pain. He was right. I stared up at him, at the mentor who had just dismantled me without breaking a sweat, and the last of my defiance crumbled into exhausted defeat. The fight left my body. I went limp under his boot.
He saw it. The moment I surrendered. He removed his foot and took a step back, his shoulders relaxing a fraction. “Get up,” he said, his tone now merely tired. “We’re done for tonight.”
I pushed myself to my elbows, every part of me screaming. He stood there, watching me struggle, offering no help. As I finally got to my feet, swaying slightly, he spoke again, his back already partly turned to me.
“Tomorrow, you start your fire classes. You will learn their methods. You will practice their control.” He glanced over his shoulder, his profile sharp against the gloom. “And you will tell me, every single day, what they teach you, and how it feels when you do it. No more secrets.”
He walked away then, leaving me alone in the whispering Garden, bruised in body and spirit, with the taste of blood and failure still in my mouth. The cold mist clung to my skin, and the dormant, golden power in my veins felt like a sleeping dragon—a creature of immense potential that I had no idea how to wake, and every fear of what would happen if I did.